


Got Your Back

by tomato_greens



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Please read the warnings in the author's note!, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomato_greens/pseuds/tomato_greens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just shake me up some," Stiles would say occasionally. "No, you can do better than that. Come on, fucking––"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got Your Back

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You can always count on me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/547582) by [Helenish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/pseuds/Helenish). 



> Warnings: No rape occurs within the story, but there are somewhat graphic rape fantasies that require usage of a safe word, as well as implied sexual assault off-screen. 
> 
> Thank you to helenish, who let me remix her original story.

Stiles came back from college taller, stronger, harder, which was a surprise; he had been plenty hard by the time he left, Derek thought.

"But nothing happened," Stiles insisted, "well, nothing I can't handle," and the thing between them still felt so tender after their months apart, so tenuous, that Derek couldn't bring himself to do much more than nod and whisper, "Yeah, sure, whatever you want," into the nape of Stiles's neck and the crook of his elbow.

"Just shake me up some," Stiles would say occasionally. "No, you can do better than that. Come on, fucking––" and then Derek would push him down onto the bed or the kitchen table or the flower sink they had installed in the far corner of the garage, and Stiles would close his eyes and let out this huge sigh. Relieved, Derek guessed––hoped, because Stiles wouldn't tell him, or maybe couldn't. 

*

"But it's weird, right? I mean, it's kind of a fucked up thing to want."

Scott threw the frisbee again, halfway across the dog park like he always did when he forgot to watch himself. Pinky took off after it, barking joyfully, her ears flying behind her like dark, silky banners. The Brain threw Scott a baleful look before primly trotting in her sister's wake, pretending, as she often did, to be dignified. "I dunno, Stiles."

"You don't know? What the hell, man? How can you not know?"

Scott shrugged and crossed his arms, the veins in his forearms popping into relief. Stiles remembered Scott was going to be a dad in six months. "I mean I dunno. People want a lot of things."

Stiles threw up his hands. "Since when did you become the zen master of the universe? It's bad, okay? It's bad, it's sad, it's definitely fucked up."

"Then I guess you have your answer," Scott pointed out, so calmly Stiles wanted to sock him one. Pinky came tearing back, the Brain hot on her heels, at the last minute ripping the frisbee out from between Pinky's jaws to set it at Scott's feet, her big pink tongue lolling. Scott immediately scrubbed them both behind the ears, crooning affectionately, before tossing the frisbee again, a little gentler this time. "But, hey, Stiles, take it easy, okay?"

*

Derek smacked the back of Stiles's head, hard as he dared to. "Get down."

Stiles knelt uncertainly at the foot of the bed. Derek shoved his shoulder. "No. _Down_ , I said." Stiles got down on all fours, his face startlingly blank. Derek waited for––their safe word, Stiles's eyes to flicker or his throat to convulse, something, but Stiles just stayed there, frozen in position. "Yeah, like that," Derek said, starting to feel desperate. "Be good for me."

Stiles flinched at that, so Derek paused, his hand on the round of Stiles's hip, but nothing changed. Just Stiles on the bed, Derek behind him, their breathing harsh in the cramped silence of the room. 

"You're so good at this," Derek tried, since at least that had gotten a reaction out of him. He smoothed his hand down between Stiles's thighs, had to close his eyes before he shoved two fingers in dry. Stiles made a small unhappy sound, but they'd talked about this. Stiles had said he wanted it. "Take it. Take me, come on, you baby. You coward."

Stiles opened his legs a little wider, air huffing out of him every time Derek thrust his fingers in. His arms had started shaking, so Derek leaned in closer, his chest practically touching Stiles's back. "You know you like it, everyone likes it." Stiles shook his head, so Derek tried to come up with something reassuring. "Yeah, Stiles, that's right––you're normal, take it, take it from me, you're just like everyone else."

"Stop, stop. Wolfsbane," Stiles choked weakly, rolling away as soon as Derek had extracted his fingers. "Wolfsbane." 

"Fuck," Derek swore, two fingers still in the air, reaching for Stiles with his other hand. "Fuck, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles said, his voice thicker than it normally was. Derek wanted to climb up behind him, but his back was tight, his whole body practically screaming. "I told you. There's nothing I can't handle."

*

After Stiles spent three days sulking in the basement, listening to the Pogues and drinking orange juice straight out of the carton, Dad took him aside and said, “Not that I’m not thrilled to have you around, Stiles, but is anything wrong?”

“No way,” Stiles assured him, “just wanted to spend some time with my dad, you know how it is, plus I’m still a growing boy and I can’t afford the calcium-enriched OJ.”

“Well, as long as you’re getting all your vitamins,” Dad said, clearly bemused, and gripped Stiles’s shoulder fondly as he got up and started clearing the table. “Don’t want you to faint on me.”

“I would never,” Stiles gasped, clutching his heart as though it were good for anything.

Later, once Stiles had finished off the last of the milk jug and every packet of powdered iced tea he could scrounge up, he found himself leaning tentatively on Dad’s desk, playing with the hideous paperweight, or possibly ash tray, one of the deputies had gotten him last December. 

“What’s up, Stiles?” his dad asked, already massaging the bridge of his nose, to which Stiles valiantly decided not to take offense. 

“Do you think you can hurt someone and still love them?”

His dad leaned back in his chair, looking carefully at Stiles from over his fingers. “Where’s this coming from?”

Stiles shook his head. He hadn’t even meant to ask––it had just sort of slipped out without his express permission. “Do you think you can hurt someone, really hurt them, and still be in love them?”

“Has anyone hurt you? Because I swear to God, Stiles, they give me this gun for a reason––”

“––which is not to shoot random people! No, no, Dad. Don’t give yourself a heart attack over nothing. Nobody hurt me. I’m just thinking aloud.”

Dad sat back down with a grunt, his shoulders slumping heavily forward. “Well, I don’t know. Sure. I guess you could hurt someone and still love them, if you didn’t mean to hurt them. Or you could love someone too much. That’s a type of hurting, isn’t it?”

“What if they asked for it?” Stiles drew his left foot onto his right knee and started picking at the laces. “What if you didn’t want to hurt someone, because you love them, and they asked for it?”

“I don’t know, son,” Dad said. “Sometimes people get hurt so badly the only thing they know how to do anymore is to hurt other people, or be hurt by them.”

“What do you do?” Stiles whispered.

Dad looked like he aged about a million years in five seconds. Stiles guiltily eyed one of the gray strands in his hair. “You be kind, Stiles. That’s all you can do––be kind.”

*

Derek washed a plate, then handed it to Stiles, who stood a stiff six inches away, drying rag in hand.

“Thanks,” Stiles murmured, which Derek found he hated––normally, Stiles couldn’t be bothered to be polite. Normally, Stiles was crowding him against the sink and doing his level best to douse Derek in warm sudsy dishwater, which was one of his charms. Derek didn’t know what to do with a Stiles who said thank you and meant it.

They finished in record time, without breaking a single dish or having to mop up even a minor flood. Stiles’s shoulders were so taut it looked painful; when he was little, Derek had stretched rubber bands around books, banisters, his brothers, anything, until they went weak and thin and brittle. The next step was snapping in two.

“Thanks for dinner.” Derek leaned forward to kiss Stiles on the cheek, not touching him anywhere else, and backed away quickly, hands raised to show they were unarmed. “I’m pretty tired.”

“Okay,” Stiles said agreeably enough, sticking a wooden spoon back into the canister where they jammed all their cooking utensils. “You heading into bed?”

Derek had been planning to, but in a sudden, sick wave, he did not want to be in their bed, watching Stiles stare at the far wall. “Gonna watch TV for a bit.”

Stiles nodded and didn’t say anything when Derek brought one of their pillows out onto the couch, which was the thing that sunk its ragged teeth into Derek’s gut. Derek didn’t mean to fall asleep there, but if Stiles didn’t want him in the bedroom, anymore, then Derek wasn’t going to push him. He wasn’t that kind of asshole.

*

Stiles was wandering through the Grab'N'Go, clutching a tin of deluxe mixed nuts, a Family Size bag of Doritos, and deliberating over a six-pack, when he literally ran into Lydia Martin, who he hadn't seen since BHHS graduation six years ago. She shrieked and immediately proved that her right hook hadn't softened any in the interim.

"Jesus, Lydia," Stiles huffed, rubbing his cheek. "At least offer me a drink first, huh?"

"Stiles? Oh my god, Stiles." She didn't apologize––"I don't like surprises," she said––but she looked faintly contrite and bought him a pickle out of the barrel on their way out of the store. 

"Thanks." The pickle was so large as to be practically obscene. He waved it in her direction as enticingly as he could."You want some?"

“No thanks,” Lydia laughed, pushing his hand away from her. “I’ll leave the pickle-biting to you, thanks.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but gnawed one end off the pickle anyway, chewing contemplatively. “It’s been a while. How’s life treated you, Lyd?”

Lydia snorted. “Can’t you tell?” she asked, twirling to face him. She had pulled her hair back in an intricate braid and pinned it up; it made her look very young and very, very beautiful. “I just graduated Summa Cum Laude from MIT and I’m a PhD candidate at Stanford. I’m visiting my parents in their lovely home in our sunny California hometown, I am young, I am finally single, I am carefree, and I’m on top of the fucking world.”

“I can see that,” Stiles said. He took another bite of pickle. “How’d you like Massachusetts?”

“Oh––cold. And full of idiots, obviously. A couple in particular. But it was all right.” She stopped and gestured at the navy blue sedan Stiles realized he was beside. “Well, this is me.”

“Seriously? A Ford?” He looked at it skeptically. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I guess I just never pictured you with anything less than a Porsche or something.”

“This car has one of the highest safety ratings according to three independent test organizations.”

“Three, huh?”

“Well, and it was a little cheaper than the Porsche.” She pressed something in her pocket and Stiles heard all the doors unlock at once. “It was good to see you.”

“Sure. You’re really safe in there?”

“––Yeah. It’s really safe. See you around, Stilinski.”

*

“What if we tried it the other way around?” Derek asked.

Stiles shrugged, scraping the last of his cereal out of the bowl. “Yeah, maybe."

"Nothing you can't handle," Derek said.


End file.
